In Pink Neon Poem by Bill Cushing

Chrome and black tile at breakfast again;
coffee’s so strong it pulls your eyelids back
going down, and while last evening’s drunks,
with five a.m. shadows, use it
to try to face the new day,
women, legs on spiked heels, lift leather skirts
to reveal specialties of the house-
initiating a physical negotiation,
trading the tangible
for currency.

In closed cuffed hand, scalene triangle
of whole wheat drips from sunnyside-up.
A single waitress covers ground.
Butter, warmed by sun shining through slatted glass,
slowly rolls down a stack of browned pancakes.
Silverware clatters, china
against china, napkin falls,
voices chatter. While outside, in pink neon,
a sign glows: 'Best Food in Town.'
And it is.